Gay Erotic Stories

When I was first hired as manager of a 24-hour, fast-food restaurant along the busy highway outside the city, the hardest thing was resisting the convenient, high-fat, high salt foods that were left over at the end of the night shift. I would be so tired after twelve hours of customer complaints, staff scheduling, payroll, purchasing and receiving that choosing a salad and milk over a burger and fries just didn’t seem all that important.

After only a few weeks, I found my new uniform slacks becoming tight in the waist. I checked my weight on the bathroom scale the next morning. I had gained ten pounds over the weight I’d had since high school and all through the two-year diploma in hotel and restaurant management that I’d just finished at the community college. With my lean frame and average height, though, those ten pounds really showed in my bathroom mirror.

Of course, it always takes longer to lose a few pounds than to gain them in the first place. I abstained from fried foods right away and continued to work out with weights at the gym three times a week, but it took six weeks of cycling or Rollerblading to and from work every day—rather than driving my car—before my clothes fit comfortably once again. Months later, I continue to enjoy the fresh air of a forty-five-minute ride on my bicycle or Rollerblades between my place in the city and the restaurant. By the time my weight returned to normal, I had never felt in better health and my quads, calves, and butt had never looked better.

I was hooked the first time I ever saw him. I was sure he didn’t even know I existed, but as soon as I noticed that he came in at exactly the same time late every night, I made sure I was at the cash register, ready to take his order after telling the regular counter server to take a break.

Although he must have shaved every morning, by the time he came in late at night, the growth of bristles had formed a dark shadow on his face. His hair was even darker and cut relatively short. He was about my age, give or take a year or two—early twenties, that is.

He was lean all over—face, torso, and legs—and within an inch of my height. His white t-shirt revealed full but not heavy pecs and a concave belly that looked as though it was concealing one of those ultra-sexy abdominal six-packs. I hoped so. Since it also left his hairless arms exposed, and no dark patch showed through the front of his shirt, I figured he kept himself smooth-shaven or he had little body hair naturally.

A wide black leather belt was laced around the waist of well-fitting cut-off shorts of blue denim. Because the frayed lower edges went less than halfway down his thighs, I could see each muscle of his legs, taut and defined. Like his pecs, his legs showed clearly that he worked out, but he didn’t have the mass of a professional bodybuilder.

Oh sure, he didn’t wear those clothes every time I saw him. Still, in my fantasies, I always pictured him in this outfit; it, like no other, seemed to accentuate all the sexy features of his body at once.

The belt was redundant, for the round cheeks of his firm butt were more than sufficient to keep his snug shorts from slipping to the ground. The thick seam of the shorts rode up between his butt cheeks. Yet the front of his denim shorts sagged under a heavy brass belt buckle. The weight of the buckle also put pressure on his cock and balls, and with thighs as firm and immovable as his behind those morsels, the only direction for them to go to partially relieve the pressure was out—and out they went. His wad always created diagonal folds up from each side of the bulging fly.

He exhibited a basket as plentiful as a spring picnic, and unlike with the lesser gods I’d seen, fantasized over, and done nothing about, I was determined not to go away hungry from this one.

I established his routine after only a few nights: Upon entering the restaurant, he would head straight for the restroom. Several minutes later, he came to the counter and placed his order, which usually didn’t vary. Usually, he ordered a salad, a broiled-chicken sandwich, and a diet cola—this guy was no slouch when it came to nutrition. Oh, sure, occasionally he splurged and had a burger instead of the chicken sandwich, or some fries instead of the salad, but not often and never both at the same time.

“Thank you,” he would say sincerely before heading toward the condiment stand to pick up a plastic salad fork and a couple of napkins. As he walked casually away, I watched his firm butt cheeks alternately rise and drop like the pistons of an engine in slow motion. I tore my glance away to quickly gather his order at the various food-preparation areas.

I’d have his order ready in time to get a good look at his wad when he came back to collect the tray, and a second look at his ass as he took the tray to his regular table. He always sat facing me, but that chair had the best light for reading his book. My view of his crotch was blocked by the condiment stand, so I moved along the counter to the exact spot that would give me an unobstructed view of his crotch under the table. The new pressures on the denim caused by sitting hadn’t spoiled my view of his crotch; rather, the lines across his basket became more noticeable; the change the he gave me a sexy view of his basket, but I could see the basket of his jeans bunched-up.

I think I was falling in love even though our only conversations were as regular customer and manager. He was beginning to have a profound effect on me, and I was equally sure that he hadn’t indicated the slightest interest in me.

Well, I’ll tell you about it, and let you be the judge.

* * *

A few nights later, I don’t know what came over me. He had just finished placing his order and was about to go to get some napkins. Before I knew it, I blurted, “Your sandwich will take a few minutes to prepare. Please take your usual seat and I’ll bring it out to you.”

I could tell he heard me admit that I knew where he always sat. He ignored that. “But there’s one ready right there under the heat lamp,” he objected.

“Forget it; that one has been sitting too long.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll make yours hot and fresh.” He looked surprised for a moment, and then smiled.

“Thanks, man,” he said. (I loved the way he called me “man.” Oh, since he saw my nametag on his first visit, he has always greeted me by name, but otherwise, it was “man.” It seemed very… well… masculine to me.)

It is the policy of the restaurant chain to throw out cooked food if it had been sitting longer than ten minutes. Contrary to popular belief, we don’t leave food for hours under heat lamps.

The reason what I said to him surprised me was that the sandwich he saw under the heat lamp had been there for only five minutes—half the time permitted by the policy. I was hired at this restaurant because I had gained a reputation at my previous workplaces for controlling costs. It was simply unlike me to throw out a sandwich that was only half-expired and make this customer a fresh one.

When I set his piping-hot sandwich on the tray at his table, he thanked me again, and I felt a warm glow inside. He invited me to sit down with him for my coffee break. “Thanks,” I said sincerely, adding, “but I don’t want to disturb your reading.” The eyebrow he raised indicated to me that he knew that I knew he usually brought along a book. I looked down. He didn’t have a book this time.

“I’d enjoy your company,” he said.

I looked back up at him. “Okay,” I said agreeably. I went back behind the counter for a diet cola. When I returned to the table, we talked for a couple of hours.

It was only on my way home—I don’t remember whether I biked or skated—that I realized he had asked me a lot of personal questions, like where I’m from, what sports I like, where I work out and how I ended up at the restaurant. All I did was talk about myself. I finally had the chance to ask him all the things I’d wondering all day long—things like “What do you do every night before you come here?” and “Where are you on your way to?” and “Which is your car?”—but I didn’t ask him any of that. Not knowing what to make of it all, I put it out of my mind.

Oh, I forgot to tell you the most important thing! I learned his name: Mark.

* * *

Late one night, several busloads of senior citizens from the South entered all at once, some making orders, but most headed directly for the restrooms.

My friend, Mark—I had thought of him as “my friend” for several weeks by that point—came in just after they did, and strode toward the men’s room as usual before he saw that that the line passed right through the doorway.

“Fuck!” I heard him swear, under his breath. That was my cue. I came around the counter.

“Hi, Mark,” I said as I approached him. Leaning toward his ear, I said softly, “There’s another washroom downstairs.”

“Oh, Rex. Hi. Thanks,” he said, surprised. “I’ve never gone down.” I hadn’t noticed until then that his wrists were in casts, and he had splints taped along several fingers.

“What happened?” I asked with concern.

“It’s a long and embarrassing story, man,” he said. “Can I tell you later? I really have to go.”

“Sure. I’ll show you the way; I have to use it myself.”

“Thanks, man.”

I went down the stairs first. When I reached the floor, I pointed to the far end, past rows of more tables like the ones upstairs. He stepped around me. “I hope you don’t mind me running ahead,” he said sheepishly, “but I’m desperate.” Not wanting to miss the sight of his naked dick, I tore off after him and caught the door before it swung closed behind him.

The sign on the door read MEN’S ROOM. I turned it around to the other side, which said CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE, then entered. I let the door close behind me before turning the deadbolt soundlessly.

The square room was small, really meant for only one person to use at a time, but there was both a toilet and a urinal against one wall, with no partition between them. I took some pride in having arranged our “coincidental”—and very private—meeting so deftly.

I almost yelped with delight when I saw that he had chosen to stand in front of the toilet rather than the urinal beside it. Since there was a bulkhead of pipes and ducts behind the urinal, its front was flush—if you’ll excuse the expression—with the front of the toilet bowl; I’d be able to see his cock!

In two long, quick steps I was over to the urinal, where I opened my uniform slacks. With only a slight turn of my head, I had an unobstructed view of his crotch not two feet away. And, I thought, the only thing preventing me from seeing his considerable dick is a layer of denim. Then I wondered whether he was wearing briefs. White cotton briefs are so sexy! Whenever Mark left the restaurant, I’d take a break, come down into this very room, lock the door, and jack off as I thought about Mark’s dazzling smile and beautiful body.

My friend was creating quite a spectacle trying to open his shorts. Pinching the end of the belt between two bound fingers, he pulled it through the leather loop of the belt then clenched it between his plaster-coated wrists to unhitch the belt from the buckle. He was in such a hurry that his immobilized fingers then fumbled several times with the button at the top of the fly.

I raised my head to see whether he noticed me watching his crotch, but his head was lowered, his eyes intent on his fumbling fingers.

Fed-up with the button, he tried the zipper instead. He had a tentative grip on the tab several times, only to lose it when he started to tug. The few times he got a firm grip, the zipper wouldn’t lower more than a third of the way. Mark grunted and moaned with frustration.

I’d seen the graffiti in the ancient, neglected restrooms called “tea rooms”: SHOW HARD FOR BLOWJOB. I guess I was hoping held see the hard-on I was so obviously displaying and make the first move, but he was so engrossed in what he was doing that he never looked up from his crotch.

It was embarrassing just standing there. I’d only pissed a little, but I was finished. Mark didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. I tried to stall—so to speak—by drawing every last drop of piss along my urethra from the perineum to the slit on the glans. I guess you could say I dawdled while I diddled. Of course, it’s only in retrospect that I can joke about the situation; at the time, I was crushed. Soon, with nothing more to do, I wrenched my half-hardon back into my uniform slacks. I stepped dejectedly to the sink.

I stretched out the washing of my hands as long as I could. Looking around, I thought of the sign I had just placed on the door outside. The room was practically sterile, since I’m the only one who uses it, but I wanted to check the dispensers.

One usually finds puddles of water and soap around the sink of a public bathroom. Accordingly, I used a few paper towels to wipe up the non-existent puddles. Next, I took a ring of keys from my pocket. Selecting the wrong one deliberately, I fumbled with it in the lock of the cabinet under the sink. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw that Mark was still fumbling too—him with his fly. Since the only other small key left on the ring was the correct one, I selected it. To further dally, I tried to put it into the lock upside down. Eventually, I could no longer postpone the inevitable. I turned the key right side-up, plunged it into the lock, and twisted it around.

I removed from the cabinet a package of paper towels, an economy-size refill of liquid soap, and a couple of rolls of toilet paper.

I intentionally tried to unlock the paper-towel dispenser with the vanity key. Finally, after opening the panel with the correct key, I tore the wrapping from the fresh stack of paper towels and placed the stack on top of the pile in the dispenser, then closed and locked the panel.

Stealing a view of Mark’s ass every few seconds, I noticed that he still had not made any progress on his zipper. He groaned with frustration, grunted with exertion, and whimpered helplessly--the poor guy.

I removed the near-empty roll of toilet paper, threw it into the wastepaper basket, and inserted a fresh roll.

Unfortunately, the soap dispenser was still full, so I couldn’t spend several minutes wresting open the case. I had left the vanity open, so all I had left to do was to put away the soap refill and lock the cabinet door.

I was stumped. I couldn’t think of anything more to do to delay my withdrawal.

“Fuuuck!” he howled—for the second time that night, I realized. This time, however, he made no attempt to keep it under his breath. It was a primal scream, and it grew as it echoed off the tiled walls of the small room.

He turned to me red-faced with exertion and perhaps bashfulness. “Could you help me with something?” he asked. “It’ll only take a sec,” he added quickly.

“Sure,” I replied. “What’s wrong?” I asked innocently.

“With these fucking splints, I can’t seem to bend my fucking fingers enough to get this fucking zipper down. I’ve been trying to get it down—and it, my fucking dick, out for the past five minutes, but it won’t fucking budge.”

“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” I said. “You’ve become so frustrated that you can’t concentrate.”

“No, man. I’ve lost my fine-fucking-motor control until these fucking splints and cock-sucking casts come off. You have to help me!” As if I wasn’t aroused enough already, the way had begun to use profanity that was exclusively sexual was making me dizzy; my knees buckled for a moment. I could feel the heat he was generating.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked.

“I gotta’ go, man—bad! If I don’t get this fucking zipper down soon, I’m going piss my fucking pants. I know you’d be just helping me out.”

“Okay,” I said. I reached tentatively toward his waist. He was still breathing too hard to notice my hands trembling in anticipation of touching another man’s crotch. Even if he doesn’t find it erotic, I thought, brushing against his clothed cock would be the closest I’ve ever come to having man-to-man sex!

His flat belly expanded and receded rapidly with his breathing. The zipper went down about a third of the way, but wouldn’t budge any farther. I tried zipping it all the way up, and then down fast, to no avail. I pulled it firmly, with all my might. Mark cried out in pain.

“Uhh! Fuck! You’re squeezing my fucking balls, man!”

“I’m sorry! I just don’t think I can do it from the front,” I apologized. “I’m too used to zipping and unzipping my own fly to do it that way. I’ll have to stand behind you and reach around.”

I pivoted into a position behind him. I reached around with both hands, and found that his back grazed my chest, but down lower, the globes of his ass pressed against my crotch. I felt my dick leap to life and press back against his butt, but he didn’t seem to notice. I breathed a sigh of relief before coming down from Cloud Nine. I looked over his shoulder and grasped the tab of the zipper with my right hand and the top of his fly with my left, then attempted to lower the zipper once again. Nothing happened.

“There must be something blocking it,” I said. “I’m going to have a look. Peeling myself off his back was the hardest thing—except for my dick—but I knew I needed a closer look. I lowered the toilet seat and the cover and sat down to a close-up view of his zipper—and crotch.

“Hurry, man,” he pleaded. I peeled back the flap of denim that covered the length of his fly and that’s when I noticed something white between the teeth of the zipper, about a third of the way down. It looked like fabric. All of a sudden, it dawned on me.

“Mark, you accidentally caught your shirt tail in the zipper the last time you zipped it up,” I said.

“Can you free it?” he asked.

“Maybe from inside,” I hesitated. “Is that okay?”

“Do whatever you have to, man.”

I placed the fingertips of one hand just inside the waist of his jean shorts. Before, I had only seen his belly expanding and contracting with his shallow breaths. Now I felt the muscles; they were vertical bands of steel. Holy Fuck!

I pushed my hand farther down, into the abyss, but apparently not far enough to brush against his dick. There I could feel the shirttail trapped in Mark’s fly. Oh, to be that scrap of material, secure against his crotch! It’s a good thing I was sitting down, for I almost fainted again. I shook the dizziness out of my head and yanked at the shirttail.

“It’s stuck,” I said. “Let’s see if we can slide the shorts off in spite of the fly.” I hooked my index fingers inside his pockets and pushed down on his shorts. They didn’t slide at all.

I sat him on the very edge of the toilet holding on to the back of it as I pulled on the legs of his denim shorts. It occurred to me that maybe he shouldn’t be sitting on his shorts, even just a little, so I told him to lie face-up on the floor with his legs in the air while I pulled the on the legs of his jeans again. They wouldn’t budge. Finally, I had him stand again.

I thought for a moment. “Well, we couldn’t get your zipper down because the shirt tail is woven into the zipper. And it looks like we can’t slide your shorts off because we’re pulling down on your shirt, which is around your shoulders. So if we get you out of your shirt, maybe the shorts will slide more easily. It’s a good thing you’re wearing a button-front shirt today, rather than a t-shirt.” He gave me another of those astonished looks.

“Whatever you say, man. Let’s just do it,” he urged. He lifted his hands to his collar, about to start unbuttoning his shirt, when he saw his bound fingers. His snort was almost a whimper. I undid the buttons from his chest near the neck right down to just inside the waist of his jeans.

I spread open his shirt and gasped at the sight of his round, meaty pecs—and hard nipples. I had seen the masculine shape he cast in t-shirts he’d worn on other visits, but this style of shirt had hidden all his hard work. Not a hair was in sight. Also, my suspicions about his abdominal development were confirmed: not only were they as hard as rock, as I had felt moments ago, but also the muscles looked like the cobblestones of an ancient European city, rounded and worn from centuries of being tread upon. I had yearned to see this part of him; still, I was intimidated.

While my mind recovered, my hands did their work automatically, slipping the shirt off Mark as he twisted one shoulder down, then the other. Their development, too, left me in awe.

I sat on the toilet seat again and pulled the denim down a little at a time at different places all around his waist. I made some progress at the front—where I saw that he was indeed wearing white cotton briefs!—but the jeans and shirt still covered his ass.

With his shirt dangling around his waist and over that superhuman butt barely covered in denim, he looked like a hip-hopster from Heaven.

I was getting pissed off. “If your ass weren’t so hard, muscular, round, tight, compact, dense, and protruding,” I exclaimed, “then maybe I’d be able to get somewhere, or make some headway!”

“ ‘Get somewhere’? ‘Headway’? Man, you’ve got to stop talking like that or you’ll get me all hard!”

I stared at his crotch. “Looks like it’s too late for that,” I said. He looked down and groaned at the sight of his tented crotch.

“Uh, no,” he said ominously. “When my dick gets hard, it stays that way for hours; it has a mind of its own. We’ll never get my jeans down with my hard-on sticking out. We might have to cut the jeans off. Do you have some scissors upstairs?”

Hours? I gulped. A mind of its own? “Yeah, I do. And I agree that it’s yet another obstacle to surpass,” I said, breathlessly. “And a formidable obstacle at that,” I added suggestively. Fuck! I regretted immediately letting him hear what I was thinking.

He smiled and said, ‘Thanks. On both counts.” It was nice to find someone able to take a compliment gracefully, without retreating into embarrassment or pretending false modesty, that I relaxed and no longer minded having told him.

“Well, I have some stuff in my locker upstairs that you could wear home,” I said. “But there must be some other way.”

‘Yeah,” he said, “I could jack off and hope one orgasm is enough to lose the hard-on.” With this revelation, I gulped again. How many times could he come and still stay hard? The thought of him beating off was arousing me. “I wouldn’t make you watch,” he said, apparently misunderstanding my expression. “You could wait outside.” Whatever happened, I decided, I wanted to be there with him, especially if getting him off was the only option. Actually, I knew I’d have to have a hand in it—so to speak—considering the condition of his own hands.

“You don’t want to stain your jeans, do you?” I asked.

“No, not if I don’t have to. Try pulling again. If I hold in my gut, maybe that will give you some slack.”

It was my turn to snort. “Mark, your stomach’s so flat you couldn’t suck it in a fraction of an inch.”

“Fuckin’-A! A hundred fucking crunches a day! Thanks again.” He tensed his abdomen and the skin over the muscles rippled and danced. He tensed all the muscles in his arms, chest, abdomen, and legs, posing for me. He turned around and did the same thing with his back muscles. I saw him squeeze the cheeks of his ass together. “Very nice,” I said. “When we get out of this mess, you’re going to have to show me how to tone muscles like that.”

“If we get out of this mess, I’ll do anything you ask, man. That’s a promise.”

My heart leapt with the possibilities of how he could “repay” me for all I’ve done! “I’ll hold you to it,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m going to try pulling the jeans down again.” Once more, I pulled on the shorts a little at a time, all around the waist. I could see about a third of his ass crack at the back. At the front, his dick stuck straight out. I thought for a moment. “Hey, Mark,” I said, “when you squeezed the cheeks of your ass together to flex your back for me, I think you made a little slack. Try that again while I keep tugging the shorts down.” When he flexed, his dick leapt toward me.

“You’ll have to rearrange your dick, Mark,” I said. “I can’t get your shorts past it.”

“You have to do it,” he objected. “I can’t use my hands.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Okay.”

“You’re the best for helping me out.”

The greatest thrill to that point in my life was touching the long, thick tool belonging to another man—if only through two layers of cloth. I coaxed his dick along the fabric until the head broke through from under the denim. Still wrapped in his briefs, I laid his cock along his hip. Holy Fuck, it was huge—both long and thick! “Well, Mark, this is it. Now, you have to relax. Just take a few deep breaths,” I said. He breathed in deeply through his nose, held it for a few seconds, and blew out through his mouth. I felt his hot, sweet-smelling breath on my face.

“Man, this relaxing is not a great idea!” he said. “I think my dick took it as a sign to let go. Also, when I contracted my righteous abs for you, I forgot that my bladder is right underneath. I don’t think I can hold it any longer! Squeeze my dickhead as hard as you can!” I was so thrilled at the thought of touching his dick again that I couldn’t bear to have even those soft briefs between me and his hard tool, so I reached under the waistband of his briefs and pinched the tip of his dick tightly between the thumb and first two fingers of one hand.

“Ahh,” he sighed.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Good.” I stood up from the toilet and raised the seat and cover. “Here we go. Squeeze those ass cheeks together, suck in your gut, hold your breath, and cross your fingers.” His muscles tensed.

I heard his aluminum splints knocked together.

“Scratch that last one. Ready?” He nodded and took a deep breath. I grasped the inside of both legs of his shorts in my other hand. When I felt a little slack in the back, I pulled down with all my might. He squirmed and writhed, grunted and groaned. His face turned a dark shade of red and sweat dripped off the tip of his nose. Slowly, the jeans slid, his briefs along with them, over his butt and down his legs. He stepped out of them.

Except for the glans in my hot little hands, his dick was finally free.

“Wait! Don’t let it go yet,” he cried. I must have shot him a surprised look, for he continued, “Uh, man, I hate like hell asking you this after all you’ve done for me, but with these splints, I won’t be able to control where my piss flies. If you don’t want it dripping down the walls, you’d better point that dick of mine down for me.”

I understood. He was embarrassed at his helplessness. It must have been humiliating not being able to take care of himself.

With my thumb and first two fingers of one hand already squeezing his glans like a vise, I wrapped the shaft of his dick in my other fist. I pushed his dick down, aiming it into the toilet. Slowly, I released his glans from my white-knuckled pinch. He grunted, held his breath and let it out several times.

Nothing happened.

“Great!” he said. “Now I can’t piss because my dick is too fucking hard!” he said.

“Say no more,” I said.

“I understand,” he said. “I don’t know if I’d be able to jack you off if our situations were reversed. But I’ve become really comfortable with you, buddy, you know? Fuck, it hurts so bad!”

I hadn’t made myself clear.

“No, you don’t understand. I will jerk you off,” I said. His face beamed with relief. “Just follow my lead, and don’t give me any lip,” I said. Unless I kiss you first, I thought, then added, this time aloud, “I’m taking charge.”

I could not have sworn in a court of law that he muttered, “It’s about fucking time.”

I stood behind him once again. But this time, I pasted my chest and abdomen against his back; I mashed my crotch into the crevasse of his gravity-defying ass, where his cheeks engulfed my own hardened dick, as if by instinct. I held the palm of one hand flat against his taut belly to keep him close while I gripped his dick tightly with the other. My heart rejoiced now that the moment I’d only dreamed of was finally a reality. It was time to concentrate on the job at hand—and not just in a manner of speaking. Slowly but surely, I began to jack him off. He moaned with pleasure.

From his belly, I slid my hand up the steely bands of his lower abdomen, past the cobblestones of his upper abs, onto his plateau pecs and latched on when I found one of his protruding nipples. I pinched it hard and he groaned. I squeezed the length of his shaft tight with the whole width of my hand as I jerked him. His head lolled back onto my shoulder and his neck shivered under my humid breath, as scalding as rocket exhaust. Seeing his tiny ear so close, I couldn’t resist probing it with my searing tongue. This drove him wild. We strained in anticipation and with his second primal scream of the night; he blasted a jet of hot semen onto the wall above the toilet before I knew it was coming. I attempted to aim his dick for the second shot, but he was right: His dick of steel truly had a mind of its own. This was one cock with the inertia of an immovable object. I might as well have tried to change the course of a speeding missile with my bare hand.

Mark grunted with each blast, and by the third or fourth one, he had leaned forward and was placing his hands on the wall above the toilet, carefully keeping his hands to either side of the slippery rivulets of his semen dripping down the wall. This small change in his orientation was enough to allow me to point most of his blasts into the toilet.

Exhausted from squirming and twisting out of his snug, jean shorts and then my expert hand job (if I do say so myself—and I do), he slumped back against me, once again rolling his head back to rest on my shoulder. Realizing that my hand was still tight around his dick, I loosened my grip and felt his cock was beginning to return to normal—of course, his dick was so big that anyone who hadn’t been jerking it for the last ten minutes might have thought it was fully hard. Then, while I was still enjoying the weight and heat of his body against mine, he started to rock gently back and forth. As he thrust his dick in and out of my fist, I felt it hardening again.

“Oh, no, you don’t, big guy,” I said, huskily. “You’re going to have that piss now.” He rolled his head toward me. We looked deeply into each other’s his eyes for a moment, and then he closed his. A contented grin had formed on his face. With that, he drew a deep breath and held it as his piss began flowing like a fire hose. Once the deluge hit the surface of the water, he let out his steaming breath.

The flooding stream was made wide by his long piss slit, and the sound of it being forced into the water of the toilet was like thunder in that small, tiled restroom.

After the first minute of his piss, I wondered whether this really was Niagara Falls I held in my hand. Considering the flow, the total volume he contained was astonishing. Where had he been keeping so much fluid in that lean bod of his?

I still had my whole hand wrapped around his shaft when the stream trickled to an end after another full minute.

“Wow! That must have been the Piss of the Century!” I said, as I yanked out a few more drops.

“Yeah,” he said nonchalantly. “I usually piss a long time like that, but my record is four minutes straight.”

“Geez! And I’ve never seen anyone look as though he enjoyed anything more. I don’t think I’ve ever come with as much pleasure as you had pissing just now. You should see your face!”

“Have you ever been with another man before?” he asked gently.

“No,” I replied softly.

“I didn’t think so.” I looked up at him, waiting for him to explain. “I have a confession to make,” he continued. “I didn’t really break my fingers and wrists, so I don’t need these splints or casts—“

“But ... why are you wearing—?” I began.

“—And I rigged my shirttail in my zipper so that it would stick,” he interrupted.

“But—” I started again.

“—I’ve never been with a guy either. I was just as scared as you. I always hoped I’d meet a sweet, good-looking guy who’d make the first move. Well, I met the guy: You.”

“Me?” I asked, still incredulous.

“Yes, you—you goof. Why do you think I spend so much time here every night? Anyway, even though I wanted you, I was still scared: What if you rejected a pass? Well, I didn’t know whether you wanted anything to happen between us, but I did, so I had to find a way for neither of us to make the first move. I didn’t know how I could do it, but I knew I could meet you halfway. All I had to do was make it as easy as possible for you to act first. One of us had to get the action going!” He stripped off the medical tape that held the splints over his fingers. Then, he slid the rubbery casts off his wrists.

“You tricked me!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” he said, unwavering. “But don’t you understand that you finally did it. You made the first move. You have every reason to be proud.”

“I am.” I paused for a moment. “But everything you told me was a lie.”

“Well, you saw that I did have to piss real bad.” I laughed. “I always do by the time I arrive.” Off my questioning look, he continued, “It’s a two-hour drive coming here after work every night. Also, my attraction to you was never a lie.”

“There’s just one thing I’d like to know,” I spat accusingly.

“What?” he asked reservedly.

“How much did you have to pay the busload of seniors to come all this way?”

After a moment, he began to laugh, and I joined him. “I had nothing to do with them. I really didn’t know about this other washroom. When I saw them, I thought I was screwed. Or rather, that I’d never be screwed.” We both laughed.

I hadn’t noticed as we were talking, but while I sat on the toilet cover, it just seemed natural for me to leave my hand on the back of his bare thigh as he stood before me. He combed his fingers intimately through my hair.

My hand wandered up over his bubble butt and I slid my fingers into the cleft of his ass. I was eager to make my next move.

THE END

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